


Inspiration

by galacticproportions



Series: Drunk In Love [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, space weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticproportions/pseuds/galacticproportions
Summary: Finn has thebestideas.





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orchis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchis/gifts).



> This sequel to "Contact High" is a little more in line with the prompt as given by the delightful Orchis. Hope you enjoy!

Poe is sitting on an obnoxious backless half-stool-half-hassock designed for cephalopod and not human anatomy, frowning at a set of reports that don't add up, when the door to their room opens. Finn comes in, hangs up his duffel, and crosses to drape himself across Poe's back and breathe warm, rum-scented exhalations against the side of his head.

“Hi,” Poe says, leaning back. “Celebrating?”

 “Mm. Good news from Bhanu, she's well dug in on Telerion Major, and Sterrett and Cahven are back from Coruscant with money. Reports are here.” He puts a datapad on top of the one Poe's been using.

“Double trouble,” Poe says, wondering if any of the sense from the new material will filter down into the old material by osmosis if he leaves them there for a while. “Nice. You left them to it?”

“Wanted to see you.” Finn's kissing the top of Poe's ear now, and working a warm hand absently under his shirt from the front. This is delightful, and when Poe asks, “How urgent are those reports?” he's just taking up his part in the dance; if they were urgent, Finn would have said so, even tipsy and amorous as he clearly is. Instead what he says is, “Not as urgent as you taking this damn shirt off.”

“You don't like it? It came in with the last donation, I thought it was sharp.”

“I wouldn't like it no matter how it was,” Finn says. “It's in my way.”

“Can't have that.” He lifts his arms, and Finn pulls the offending shirt up and off. Despite the tough talk, he doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry: he rolls his thumbs into the triangle of muscle where shoulder meets neck, bringing pain and then exquisite relief as the knots melt. He kisses the first knob of Poe's spine, then the second, and on downward, sending shivers up and down that seem to settle in Poe's scalp somehow, and then he straightens up, props his head on top of Poe's and leans into him again, lacing his fingers together where Poe's belly bulges over his waistband, apparently settling in for the evening.

Poe thinks about asking something like _What's the hold up?_ Then he thinks no, he could go for a long stretch of this, the two of them braced together. This lasts for a minute or so, and then he says, “So did you want anything or--”

Finn snorts and nuzzles Poe's hair. “I got distracted,” he says. “Thanks for keeping me on track.”

“That's me,” Poe says. “Efficient. Goal-oriented. Practically Threepio. You're not just drunk, are you?”

“I shared around some of the spice we got from your dad last time. Was that cool?”

“Yeah, of course.” One of the things that Poe finds charming about Finn, as distinct from the things that he finds admirable and impressive about Finn and the things that he finds intolerably arousing about Finn, is that Finn loves sharing things with people—loves having things to share, loves finding people who want them. Resources have been scant through their multiple iterations of relocation and restructuring, but Finn _finds_ things, songs he's heard that he wants you to hear too, a soft scarf from a clothing drop that he'll drape around your neck, and offers them with a mix of pride and shyness. “There's some left if you want it,” Finn says now. “We didn't smoke it all.”

“Catch up with you? Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Lay it on me.”

The Oa Ruripi don't use beds, and all the humanoids they're hosting are making do with jury-rigged versions; this is an exercise frame turned on its side, with blankets piled on top of a kind of rope hammock strung across it. Finn sits on the edge and takes small parcels out of his jacket pocket: the spice itself, rolling papers. Poe turns all the way around on the stupid backbreaking piece of furniture to watch him. Finn is plenty dexterous when he's cleaning a blaster or fingering Poe open and making him beg, but something about the combination of the crumbly drug and fragile little papers gives him trouble, especially when he's already a little faded. Poe finds this charming too, of course. He gets up and sits next to Finn, lets the sagginess of the bed tip them together, and takes the joint from him to light it.

The first hit is soft but strong, like a wall of air coming at him. Poe settles into it, aware that Finn is watching him fondly, with a smile lifting one side of his mouth, and his eyes the way they get.

“I was thinking maybe I could blow you while you smoke that,” Finn says, and Poe inhales the wrong way and spends the next minute hacking and wheezing while Finn laughs at him and thumps his back.

“Are you serious,” Poe says when his lungs are working again.

“I am,” Finn says. “I am serious, but I'm also funny.” He laughs some more, apparently at himself this time.

“Where,” Poe says, still trying to get his breath back. “Idea.” There might be words that go in between there, but it's too late now. His only reference for this idea is porn (fairly hot porn, to be sure) and maybe a couple of jokes in his Academy days. Even Muran, a never-ending resource of inventive sexual antics, had never suggested this, partly because he disapproved of drugs in general and spice in particular. He never said anything about it, but Poe could tell.

“Sterrett was saying her girl used to go down on her while she was smoking and it was amazing, and I thought, well.” Finn shrugs; also charming. “Something about it sounded good to me. We can wait till you're done with that if you want.”

Sterrett's girl was Tallie, who died in the evacuation from D'Qar. Finn doesn't know that: he was in a medical coma when they tackled the dreadnought. He knows so much, sees so much, makes such real and right connections between the things he sees that Poe keeps forgetting what he _doesn't_ know. He's looking at Poe now with a little nervousness curdling the edge of his high. Poe doesn't want that. He wants Finn to enjoy himself, wants Finn to enjoy _him._ He says, “Let's go for it.”

Finn stands up, puts a knee on either side of Poe's hips, and kisses him, big brimming ladlefuls of kisses, open-mouthed and soft and long-lasting, so that Poe almost forgets the next part of the plan until he feels Finn taking the joint out of his hand where he's about to set the blankets on fire. Then he gets lost in Finn's kisses, their kisses, again for awhile, until Finn says, “You ready for another hit?” Hands Poe the joint and sinks to the floor and says, “Let me.”

Poe does. He's hard, of course, has been since before the kissing started, practically since Finn walked into the room. Takes another drag, and it's like the inhale never ends, the rush continuous as Finn's warm mouth closes around him, hot starry smoke filling him up to the ends of his hair, like eyelashes brushing against the inside of his skull.

He'd forgotten how strong the homegrown stuff is, almost forgotten (never _really_ forgets, but is stunned anew every time) how good Finn is at this, how his eagerness is balanced with precision even through the spice haze, how through their time together (between briefings and battles and evacuations and missions and recovering from injuries) he's picked up everything that makes Poe crazy and deploys it bit by bit. Sensations flare and blur, hint of unyielding teeth, tongue skittish almost around his slit, then as if there's been a time-jump the slick gulp and grasp of Finn's throat.

He remembers, once more, to bring his hand to his mouth, the end of the joint unexpectedly damp with spit, enough to gross him out in that weird out-of-body way that spice can bring, before he's again entirely synonymous with his body, with his dick intensely and specifically and then with every nerve that threads outward from his center, flaming and dimming to a smolder.

He falls back on the bed, or rather he finds himself lying on his back, _having_ fallen. Finn is laughing again, rising from his crouch, leaning over him, heavy and hovering, following him down, laughing more, into his neck, so that Poe laughs too.

The next thing that happens, that Poe registers as happening, is that Finn is kneeling over him. He stops giggling and gets serious as Finn's cockhead troubles his lips, as he licks out, tastes, gets sloppy, opens up. “Yeah,” Finn's saying, “do your tongue like that,” and Poe complies, sinking into hyperfocus, lavishing attention on every thick and delicious inch. He's made good use of these past few months too, and his learning curve may not be as sharp as Finn's but he's _great_ at improvising based on new input, a sharp hiss, a heavy hand cupping his face.

“Can't believe I get to feel you _and_ see you do this,” Finn says, touching himself through Poe's cheek. “You suck it like you were made for it.”

Finn almost never talks like this when they fuck sober, and Poe likes to be talked to. He knows he should cherish this moment as well as finding it hot. And he's not about to discount the possibility that the galaxy did gather these specific atoms into a Poe-Dameron-shaped clump for the express purpose of sucking Finn's cock. It's definitely worthy of that kind of attention.

But he also has an unsettling vision of a bonfire in some future year, of Finn saying casually to the shadows seated around it, _Yeah, best head I ever got was from this guy I used to see during the war._ His eyes fill with tears that have nothing to do with his gag reflex and it's _stupid,_ it's just a dumb thought about something that probably won't ever happen and even if it does it's not like he'll be around to--

“I love you,” Finn says, “ah, fuck, I love you, come here, come up here,” clumsily moving backward so that he can haul Poe up into a sitting position. He says it over and over, kissing Poe's mouth and eyes, as if he knew what Poe was thinking. And since he _can't_ have known what Poe was thinking, that means he's just saying this because he wants to. Because it's true. Which Poe knows, anyway, mostly, most of the time, but.

This is definitely spiced thinking, the spiraling way it takes him sometimes, and the best way to meet it, the one he can really see his way to at the moment, is to get Finn's dick in his mouth again, fucking all of his thoughts right out of his head. He tries to squirm down again but Finn is heavy on him, ass and balls pressed against Poe's thighs, hands on Poe's shoulders, saying, “Listen, I want to fuck you, do you want that, tell me.”

“Yeah.” He can't think of anything else to say or anything that's more true, so he says, “Yeah,” again.

“Good, I want it too,” Finn says, still stoned enough to be happily repeating himself, “where's the lube?”

“It's wherever you put it.You wouldn't let me unpack.”

“Oh, right.” Finn lifts off him—Poe might drift away, spin loose—and starts rummaging. “Here we go. Yeah. Bend your knees?” He's kneeling between Poe's thighs, having spread them with his hands before settling back on the bed. Taps Poe's hole with a fingertip, light and dry, like he's keeping his place, and then slicks up that finger, to start with. Poe shudders and stretches and watches Finn's face, intent on what he's doing, nail-deep, knuckle-deep, probing and pressing. “You're beautiful here,” Finn says, pulling out and tracing, sliding back in with two fingers this time, “this makes my _fingers_ feel good, it's wild. I wanna taste you some more, hold still.” He crouches and licks at Poe's stretched rim, and Poe can't possibly hold still, calls out Finn's name in a hoarse and shaking voice.

Finn raises his head and smiles sweetly, so sweetly, and says, “Right here.” He eases his fingers out, repositions himself, strokes his cock a couple of times, pushes in.

Poe grunts with the effort of taking him, the work of letting go and of holding onto Finn the whole time—this is going to be fast, he can tell, Finn's heaving and surging against him already, control slipping, breath loud and harsh and encompassing. Finn without inhibitions, Finn doing just what he wants, what he feels, means Finn urgent and giving and tender, Finn keeping Poe _here_ , moving with him, saying, again, “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He could be saying yes to anything, everything, Finn's hands kneading at his shoulders, Finn's cock thudding into his guts and dragging against his hole, Finn's undeniable, irrefutable presence, the sheen of him, the weight of him, his seriousness, his lodestar _goodness:_ nothing to do with Poe at all, except that Finn could be anywhere and he's here, all the imaginary future Finns who don't care banished by the real one who does.

“Tell me you know it.”

Finn's here, now, so deep inside Poe that they're overlapping, and he's here on Nerites, and he's here in the Resistance, and he's here when there's a plan to make, or spice to share, or a problem to solve, or a person to mourn.

“I know it,” Poe says, and Finn groans, deep and heavy, and comes with his face mashed hard into Poe's neck.

They lie very still for a while, breathing.

Finn pulls out after a while and gently, musingly, thumbs around Poe's slick and tender hole. Kisses his stomach, then his brow. Grabs a pair of underdrawers off the floor, whose it isn't clear, and wipes them both down. “Put your arm out,” he suggests, and when Poe does, lies back down and fits his head into the hollow of chest and shoulder and neck, the spot that on humanoids clearly evolved for someone's head to rest.

The dizzy and time-slippery and highly-sensitized stage of the high is waning, and the lassitude and melancholy and vague irritation that he's not back to baseline are on their way. So is the cotton mouth, but Poe has no real desire to move to get them water, or ever again. “Love you too,” he says. “By the way.”

“Mm,” Finn says, and is suddenly and unmistakably asleep.

Poe wouldn't mind falling asleep himself. He isn't going to get _more_ comfortable, and not reconciling those reports this evening means he'll have to deal with them the next morning. (He briefly entertains, and summarily rejects, easing his arm out from under Finn's shoulders and getting back to work.) He resigns himself to being awake and being where he is, not just here but now, gradually losing feeling in the hand that's curled around Finn's head (he supposes he'll have to move eventually), breathing in the familiar smell of them together, wishing for an end to many things, but never an end to this.

 


End file.
